


His Last Bow (1914)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [229]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Assassination Attempt(s), Destiel - Freeform, Embarrassed John, Gay Sex, Goodbyes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Politics, Retirement, Theatre, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The final case, and all the world's a stage - unfortunately for John Watson.





	His Last Bow (1914)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



I stared around in disbelief. The whole thing had an air of unreality about it.

We were back in our old rooms at Baker Street, albeit only for a few days. The amazing thing was that it looked as if we had been gone for ten minutes, not ten years. Everything was exactly the way we had left it back in 1904, with not a speck of dust on what were clearly copies of some of our favourite possessions. Besides me, Sherlock chuckled.

“Surprised?” he asked.

“A little”, I confessed. “What is happening here?”

“What do you think, doctor?” Mr. Gaylord Holmes asked, edging past us. “It is basically a Holmes-Watson Museum. Your publishers rented the place off Mrs. Lindberg after you moved out, and they also took Room Four for someone to keep an eye on the place. Her, ahem, copious family takes up all the other rooms. People want to see where the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes solved all those cases you wrote about, and some even pay to spend the night here.”

I wrinkled my nose in distaste. “And you brought us here to show us this?” I asked.

His smile faded. 

“You know that we would not have called on you for help unless things were desperate”, he said. “Well, they are now officially desperate. Bacchus sent me a telegram yesterday from the Balkans, and his worst fears look set to come true. The Austrians have made a whole host of demands on the Serbs after the assassination, and this time the Russians are looking as if they will back their fellow Slavs. The war that we have been dodging for the past few decades looks like it is finally going to happen!”

Mr. Gaylord Holmes had taken over the administration of our 'retirement' a few years back when his brother Bacchus had been dispatched to south-east Europe to monitor the increasingly dangerous situation there (I would much have preferred Mr. Lucius Holmes, but he and his lover Alfie had emigrated to the United States the year before). In first Morocco and then Bosnia, war between the two political blocks had looked set to erupt, only for cooler heads to prevail on both occasions. But that luck could not last forever – and the assassination last month of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, (heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire) by a Serb 'patriot' had exacerbated the already high tensions between Vienna and Belgrade. It was now less a question of whether war would break out, and more one of whether Great Britain and the Empire would be drawn into it.

“It is like a set of dominoes”, Sherlock's brother had explained in the carriage on the way here. “Austria attacks Serbia who calls on its ally Russia which, unlike back in the Bosnia Crisis, is now capable of answering that call. Russia calls on France for help, whilst Austria calls on their fellow Germans in Berlin. The Germans are looking for any excuse to attack France, but their common border is too well-defended, so they will have to go through Belgium. Since we have guaranteed that country's neutrality because of its ports facing us, we look set be dragged in.”

“The Germans would be foolish to try such a thing”, I said. “They cannot take on France and Russia at the same time, let alone us as well.”

“They will rely on a quick victory against France, or failing that, to seize its major industries, many of which are close to the Belgian border”, Gaylord explained. “And they will believe both that the Russians will be slow to mobilize, with their infrastructure still fairly poor, and that the Austrians will secure their eastern borders for them. I think that they are wrong on most if not all of those counts, but that is not important; if the Kaiser believes all that, he is the sort of person who will go for broke.”

“I do not see how you think that we can do anything”, I said. “We are not diplomats.”

“True”, our host said. “However, by a stroke of bad luck, the French president is coming to England tomorrow for what was originally going to be just an informal visit. In view of events in the Balkans, King George wants to do what he can to make him feel welcome. The two men will attend the performance of a play in Shaftesbury Avenue, and your attendance would most certainly be appreciated.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

His brother reddened. I began to get a bad feeling.

“The play is called 'Before 221B'”, he said. “It is all about the two of you meeting in London a few months years before Bargate, and solving the theft of the Crown Jewels. I know, I know; I feel much the same about some of your 'fans' as you do! The French president is an ardent fan of 'Johnlock' – yes, apparently that is a word now – and he would like to meet you. Of course the king cannot command your attendance – but the country needs it.”

“When is this play going to take place?” Sherlock asked.

“Friday”, his brother said. 

We both looked hard at him, and he flinched.

“Friday as in two days away?” Sherlock asked dryly. 

“They only sprung it on me yesterday”, his brother said defensively. “And obviously it is not just your showing up to shake hands. The heads of state of both France and Great Britain in an open royal box. It is an assassin's dream.”

“Can you secure us the box next to the royal one?” Sherlock asked. 

His brother nodded. 

“I should also like to see the play beforehand”, Sherlock said. “Are there any viewings before the royal performance?”

“Just the one tomorrow night”, his brother said. “I shall get you both tickets.”

+~+~+

Though Sherlock and I had solved many murders in our time, I was seriously considering adding one of my own to the list – the bloody and painful ending of whoever had written this travesty of a play! Sherlock seemed amused at the young actor portraying him (accurately) as an untidy genius after whom I was forever cleaning up, but me? Hah!

The actor playing Doctor Watson not only looked nothing like me - his taste in clothes was abominable - but the character was miles off! I was either a bumbling idiot, sure that I knew who had committed any crime and invariably being proved wrong, or I sat there cleaning my revolver, pouting in a way that I never did in real life (and if anyone in the vicinity felt compelled to suggest otherwise, I would..... not be happy). And I did not shoot at a maid because she made me jump, nor did I ever accidentally shoot myself in the foot! The fact that the people watching the whole farrago seemed to find the portrayal highly amusing did not help, either.

“The man playing me is a Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch”, Sherlock whispered, “one of the top actors of his generation. He is rather good, I must say. Yours is a fellow called Mr. Martin Freeman, who is less known in the profession. His portrayal of you is quite.... interesting.”

I glared at him.

“Your man is not portraying you as a pouting, trigger-happy imbecile with a tidying fetish!” I grouched. 

“It could be worse”, he said comfortingly. I turned to him.

 _“How?”_ I demanded testily.

He did not have an answer to that. _And I saw that smirk!_

+~+~+

We arrived back at Baker Street to find a worried Mr. Gaylord Holmes waiting for us. He did not even give us time to take our coats off. 

“The worst news imaginable!” he burst out. “Philip Delagardie has gone missing!”

Clearly this was news of some import, though I did not know why. Sherlock, however, looked very grave.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We sent our agent in Berlin to check up on him, and he has been gone for three days”, his brother groaned. “And taken his passport with him. He could easily be here right now.”

“Who is this man?” I asked. Sherlock turned to me.

“One of the top assassins on the Continent”, he said grimly. “Out job has become that much harder. So we shall just have to change the rules of the game to suit us.”

We both looked at him, confused.

+~+~+

I awoke on Friday morning to find, as had so often been the case in our many years at Baker Street, that I seemed to have acquired a human octopus during the night. I looked at the clock, and saw that it said just after seven, which was early for me and impossible for Sherlock. I silently hoped that Mrs. Lindberg had had the foresight to make coffee for him.

He opened one blue eye at me and squinted at the early morning light. 

“Ugh!” he muttered. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven”, I told him. 

To my surprise he groaned.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“Gaylord is coming at nine to take us to the morning rehearsals”, he said. And these rooms are already booked for a party this weekend, so we cannot stay here afterwards, whatever happens. I had hoped that our last day here might be memorable.”

I grinned and raised his sleepy head, running a finger through his ever-present stubble and kissing him on the lips.

“It will be”, I whispered, “if before he arrives, you take me in every room here!”

His eyes shot open, and a feral smile creased his features. In seconds he was between my legs fingering me open whilst I writhed above him, waiting for him to get on with it. And get on with it he very quickly did, pushing in and bottoming out with a grunt, and setting to work straight away by fingering my nipples with one hand and rubbing my cock with the other. There was no way I could resist such a combined assault, nor did I wish to, and I was coming in minutes. I was surprised that he did not come inside of me, but when he stood on the end of the bed, I realized why.

“I shall be sixty myself very soon”, he said, “and I needed the ring to hold me back.”

Looking up at him, I wondered if that was what it had felt like to sail beneath the Colossus of Rhodes, that short-lived wonder of the Ancient World. Except Sherlock was a living breathing wonder who was already dragging me off to the main room. The famous fireside chair had of course been replaced, the original one now residing in our little cottage, otherwise the room was just as we left it, all those years ago. Sherlock seated me on the couch, my erection already rising again despite my sixty-two years, and squatted naked over me before lowering himself onto me, taking me so quickly I nearly blacked out. I was supposed to be the one in charge here, but Sherlock was literally dragging the orgasm out of me, and I came a second time with a satisfied grunt.

Into my bedroom next, and Sherlock all but threw me into the bed, my now tired cock flagging at all the effort. At least I was still loose enough to take him without any further preparation, and he thrust in easily, reaching round and gently massaging my cock without trying to force another orgasm out of me. Yet despite my tiredness, I still managed a few feeble spurts as he drove hard inside me, and this time he did come, grabbing me hard as he rode through a sudden orgasm.

“I broke the ring!” he muttered. “You are some manly man, John Watson!”

I smiled at the praise, but my limbs were leaden as he too me into the bathroom, and eased me under the shower. Had he not been supporting me I might well have collapsed, but the refreshing spray coupled with his tender ministrations as he kissed his way around my body made me feel a little stronger, and when he ran his tongue up the underside of my cock, it actually managed to become almost fully erect again. Sherlock eased in behind me and slipped inside of me, not pushing for an orgasm this time but content to make us one, somehow recharging me just by his presence. I leaned against the wall for support, and the movement caused him to brush against my prostate and come forcibly. My cock twitched, but that was all. I was done.

He sat me on the side of the bath whilst he ran the hot water, and soon he had me nestling against him under the bubbles and steamy water, thankful that my shattered muscles were being supported by the water. It did not last long, and we were interrupted by the sound of the bell.

“Gaylord?” I whined.

“Breakfast”, he grinned, slipping out and seemingly unaffected by our little marathon. “I shall fetch it into the main room.”

I managed to summon the energy to lay a hand on his bare leg, and he looked down at me.

“I love you”, I said simply.

“I know”, he smiled. “And that makes me the luckiest man in Old London Town!”

+~+~+

Mr. Gaylord Holmes had, of course, scowled mightily at us when he had called at the end of breakfast to collect us, muttering something about impossible sex-maniacs. Sherlock just smirked, which made things worse, especially as I was still weak on my legs. 

“The play is not that bad”, my friend said comfortingly once we were in the cab on the way to the theatre. “Look what you grew up into.”

I preened.

“Even if you could not shoot straight, and pouted too much!”

I scowled (it was _not_ a pout). He chuckled and took my arm, which mollified me slightly.

Once at the theatre we were introduced to a Mr. Robert Benedict, the director of the play. He was awestruck at our appearance and wanted to introduce us to all the cast, but luckily Sherlock dissuaded him. I still had my gun.

“They have to perform tonight”, he said. “I do not want them to worry, especially as the doctor and I will be in the audience.”

“You... will be watching?” The man looked horrified.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “Pray tell us how you came to be performing this most remarkable work.”

I would have used quite a different and shorter adjective at that point, one decidedly more Anglo-Saxon in tone. The director squinted at Sherlock over the top of his round glasses, clearly suspecting sarcasm, but as usual no-one was ever going to able to out-stare the blue-eyed genius. Mr. Benedict blinked several times as his eyes watered.

“The play was originally written by a Mr. Benjamin Edlund and Mr. Jeremy Carver”, he said. “They run a small theatre group up in the city of York. Of course we had to adapt it somewhat for the London stage, and also because we were fortunate enough to secure the services of Mr. Cumberbatch.”

“How did you come to be performing it?” Sherlock asked. “It is not the usual thing one sees on a London stage.”

“Mr. Cumberbatch was on holiday in the White Rose County”, the man said, “and being a 'Johnlock' fan like myself, he saw the play being advertised and decided to see what it was like. He asked the writers for a script, and of course they said yes, though I do not yet know what they will make of our changes.”

“Such as?” I inquired, a tad coldly. 

“People expect extremes in the theatre, doctor”, he said soothingly. “We have to exaggerate characteristics to make the audience laugh or cry. I take it that you have not see the performance yourselves as of yet?”

“We have read some reviews”, Sherlock cut in before I could say something that I would not have regretted in the slightest. “They were generally positive, so we decided that as we were visiting the Old Country, we would spend an evening watching ourselves. Vanity, one might say.”

“We should be honoured, but I will respect your wishes and not inform the actors beforehand”, he said. “I suppose that you are right; it would only make them even more nervous. Mr. Freeman nearly forgot his lines twice last night, as it was.”

Two more chances to make John Watson look an even greater fool, I thought bitterly. Oh lucky me!

“How did you come to choose him as the young doctor?” Sherlock asked. “He is not as renowned as Mr. Cumberbatch.”

“He was one of twelve people who read for the part, and very keen”, the director said. “Physically, he matched up to what was wanted, but more importantly, Mr. Cumberbatch..... well, I should not say it, but he has a reputation for being a little, ahem, difficult when it comes to his fellow performers, and he took a dislike to several of the others that we had considered for the part. I do not think that he much likes Mr. Freeman, for that matter, but he at least tolerates him. He got on better with two of the other applicants, but they both read poorly.”

“Divas!” I muttered. He smiled at me.

“I have seen Mr. Freeman before, and I noted then that he has a slight accent”, Sherlock observed. “Which country does he hail from originally?”

“He is an Austrian by birth”, Mr. Benedict said, “but he has lived here since he was twelve. I believe that he is estranged from his father, who still lives in Vienna.”

“I have one more question”, Sherlock said. “One of the reviews mentioned a scene where Mr. Cumberbatch walks behind a pillar in the middle of the stage, and then disappears. Am I to assume that a trapdoor is involved?”

The director nodded. 

“A dividing door, one that splits and opens downwards, dropping him onto a feather mattress about seven feet below”, he said. “There are footmarks on the stage; you cannot see those from the audience, of course, but unless someone stands _exactly_ where the footmarks are, the mechanism will jam. Except if someone else pulls the over-ride at the back of the stage.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “I suppose that your artists run true to form, and will not be in until later this morning?”

“That is correct”, he said. “Do you wish to examine the stage where it all takes place?”

“I would like a quick look”, Sherlock said. “Do not disturb yourself, sir; we shall only be a few minutes. Doctor, shall we go?”

+~+~+

I moved to the front of the stage and stared out into the audience. Tonight there would be not just a couple of hundred members of the public, but the King-Emperor of Great Britain and the President of France watching on. All looking at the fool that was Doctor John Watson.

At least I got the real thing, I thought morosely. 

“When the diva doctor has finished bowing to the assembled throng”, a voice came from right next to my ear, “we might leave.”

I did not jump up, or let out a girly shriek. Much.

“You will pay for that!” I grumbled.

He looked at me coquettishly.

“Promise?” he grinned, before disappearing through a door.

+~+~+

After I had made my feelings clear about how annoyed I was to be called a diva (a point I made twice, despite being sixty-two years old), Sherlock apologized. He did warn me, however, that he might have to slip away during the performance tonight, but that I should watch the stage and tell him later what I thought of 'my performance'. But when he saw how cross I was, he dragged me into a small dressing-room and more than made it up to me.

As I staggered out to the cab, I wondered if I might sneak some cushions into our box....

+~+~+

The visit of king-emperor and president to the theatre was, for obvious reasons, done anonymously, and judging from the large but not massive crowds waiting for admission, the secrecy had worked. I only hoped that Sherlock's preparations to prevent any attack would work, too.

During the interlude, I used the gentlemen's toilets, and returned to find a note from Sherlock saying that he had been called away. I sighed, and waited for the humiliation to resume. 

The play finished with one of the thieves having been captured and one escaped, the latter breaking into the room in which our young selves were staying to try to kill young Sherlock Holmes in revenge. Of course bumbling young John Watson inadvertently helped save the day by misreading the situation, but allowing Sherlock time to get his pistol from a drawer and hold the attacker at gunpoint until the police arrived a few moments later. The closing lines were Sherlock thanking me for saving his life, and me not having a clue what had been going on, which was par for the course, really. Not even close to reality.

_How the hell could I hear him doing an eye-roll when he was not even there?_

The actors lined up on the stage with Mr. Cumberbatch and the buffoon playing me in the middle, and all bowed to the audience. Then a light suddenly switched to illuminate the royal box, and everyone saw who had been watching them all evening, the audience rising as one to their feet. I assumed that the orchestra was going to play the National Anthem – but they did not. Because something else happened first. 

Mr. Cumberbatch suddenly pointed the gun he was still holding straight at the royal box. There were several gasps from the audience, but no-one moved to stop him. He squeezed the trigger..... and an explosion of red, white and blue paper exploded from the nozzle!

The look on the actor's face was one of complete confoundment. He squeezed the trigger once again, but only succeeded in creating more multicoloured confetti. Seeing policemen advancing from one side of the stage – I recognized our friend Superintendent Baldur at their head – the actor raced over to the trapdoor (the pillar had been removed at this point in the performance, so I could see where he was going) and jumped onto it.

Nothing happened. 

He had time for two more jumps before the policemen were on him. At that moment the conductor of the orchestra, belatedly coming to his senses, led his orchestra into La Marseillaise, and followed it up with the National Anthem. Mr. Cumberbatch had by then long been dragged from the stage. And to the astonishment of the audience, 'Sherlock' – the real one; I would never be fooled by any copy – came on wearing the same clothes as Mr. Cumberbatch, and joined the cast in singing both songs lustily and loudly.

+~+~+

“It made for a fitting last case”, my friend said as we returned to Baker Street for the last time. “Our final adventure together, and the murderer? Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

The aftermath of the performance had been draining, and had involved an overly-long interview with both the King-Emperor and the President that I would long remember. I had promised (in very bad French, corrected of course by the blue-eyed genius) to send him a set of my complete works, signed, and both gentlemen had thanked us profusely. And I had spoken with and shaken hands with George the Fifth himself! The King-Emperor of a quarter of the known world!

I pulled myself together. 

“What made you suspect Mr. Cumberbatch?” I asked.

“He seemed the obvious candidate”, Sherlock said. “For one thing, whoever planned this had to have known about the visit of the French president, as these things are planned months in advance. That meant someone most probably in the pay of either the Germans or the Austrians. When Mr. Cumberbatch happened across that theatre group in York, he realized what an opportunity it presented. Anyone who knows anything about the French president knows that he is fond of your writings, so if a play about us was on in London during his visit, he would wish to see it. And we know from the director's lack of reaction that the visit was kept secret.”

“So you suspected him from the start?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“If we are being honest”, he said looking at me somewhat warily, “the play was irredeemably atrocious! Yet one of the leading actors of our generation wanted to be in it. That seemed odd. And his choice of Mr. Freeman to play opposite him was also curious, but as the man had an Austrian background, that might prove a useful diversion at some point.”

“But what happened with his gun?” I asked.

Sherlock smiled.

“Ah, before the gun there was the small matter of the trap-door”, he said. “I would say that he was most probably aiming for the president rather than the king.”

“Why aim for the president?” I asked.

“Because if King George dies, then his son simply takes over”, Sherlock said. “I know that Gaylord has some reservations about that young man, rightly so I fear, but the constitutional disturbance to our country would be minimal. If the French president is shot whilst visiting the capital of a supposed ally, however, all hell would break loose. The French have never coped well with change, and their response to any German attack would be weakened. Thus Mr. Cumberbatch, who is by the way an excellent shot, would only need one bullet.”

“How do you know that he is an excellent shot?” I asked. 

“Superintendent Baldur has been finding out rather a lot about that young man for me”, Sherlock said. “Not only did his father provide him with a course of shooting lessons, but the fellow also has expensive tastes which an actor's variable income could not possibly support. His bank account has received several mysterious deposits of late, and it may be that with time they can be traced to the country which employed him.”

“And the trap-door?” I prompted.

“When we visited the theatre this morning, I examined the mechanism”, he said. “He had set the levers to the 'open' position, so one of the two things I did when I was backstage was to wait until he had disappeared in the Tower scene, then lock them down again. I did not want him to escape.”

“What about the gun?” I asked.

“Having a gun with live bullets in it is dangerous, especially in a theatre with so many people”, Sherlock said. “I managed to catch him at the start of the interlude swapping the gun with blanks for his own weapon, and leaving it in the drawer from which he extracted it in the final scene. Once he had gone to his room, I replaced the bullets with something more colourful.”

We had arrived at Baker Street, and to our surprise we saw Superintendent Baldur coming down the steps. 

“I thought that you two might be home”, he said, his face grave. “There is some bad news.”

“Not another attempt on the French president?” I asked, worried. He shook his head.

“No”, he said, “Mr. Cumberbatch. The police van taking him to the station was held up by a dozen armed men, and he was dragged out and shot. There were only three officers, all unarmed, so they could not stop them. They were lucky that they did not get shot, too.”

“So those who live by the sword die by it”, Sherlock said softly. “Doubtless he was promised a great reward by whichever country employed him. I almost wish I could have been there to see him receive it.”

I nodded.

+~+~+

We went briefly upstairs to say a last goodbye to our rooms, and it struck me that this was not really our home any more. 221B was but a shadow of what had been, and my future lay many miles to the south, in the arms of the man that I loved. 

We went to Gaylord's hotel for the night, and the following day we were both glad to leave London for our country retreat. As we entered, I paused at the door of our little cottage, and looked down to Casdene, resting peacefully in the sunshine beneath us.

“Men from there are going to be marching off to war, soon”, I said sadly. “Some will never come back, and others will return less than whole. The Continent will never be at peace until Kaiser Bill is defeated.”

He came up behind me, as always a source of warmth and comfort as he stood close. 

“I always admired that part of you, John”, he said softly. “In another age you would have been the knight-crusader, heading off to slay the dragon and rescue the fair damsel in distress.”

I leaned back into him.

“What do I want with fair damsels?” I scoffed lightly. “I have you, remember?”

“And you always will”, he whispered.

Together, we went into our home, and onto whatever the future held for us both. Sherlock and John, together for always. It really was... elementary!

+~+~+

Next, the dark years of war.


End file.
